


Stuck

by dolphineclaye



Category: Orange is the New Black
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, I mean like a LOT of angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Motherly Red, OC, Other, Self-Harm, definitely after season1 tho i think?, disregards most of the stuff thats happened tho, i mean theres some fluff there too, mostly angst tho, nicky is adorable, non-canon, oc sucks at dealing with feelings, red is a mom, trust me it will most likely make u sad, very vague timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-23 02:33:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23137639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dolphineclaye/pseuds/dolphineclaye
Summary: Imogen Hughes, a very unassuming young woman, is thrown into Litchfield Penitentiary and is stuck there for four years. She is terrified and just wants to get through it without drawing too much attention to herself. However, going to prison can make people do stupid things, and soon enough Imogen gains the attention of one Galina "Red" Reznikov(self-harming OC, Nicky and Red help her out.)!! Currently on pause !!
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi! this is my first story on AO3 :) i really love oitnb fics thats based around red being a (still very tough-love) motherly figure, but i feel like i haven't really seen a whole lot of them that are set in the prison, and not in an au, so i decided to write one! anyway i hope you enjoy it, not sure how long it will be till i update next, cause this was a very spur-of-the-moment thing, but probably soon!

None of it seemed real those last few moments. There was no way it could be, so why would it feel like it was? But as soon as she heard the door to the prison van screech shut, the realization of it all hit her. She was in prison. And she wouldn’t be getting out for four years. A net bag of towels and other such things under her arm, Imogen looked around at the van she was now sitting in.

“Alright, Morello,” said the guard sitting beside the driver’s seat. “Let’s go, I don’t have all day.”

The woman in the driver’s seat had short brown hair, and very red lipstick on, but what surprised Imogen was the khaki clothes she wore, and the prison name tag clipped onto her front pocket. A prisoner, driving?

“Oh, I didn’t realize she was the only one! Sorry Maxwell.” Morello started the van, and soon they were driving off towards Litchfield Penitentiary. 

After a few minutes of silence, Morello turned her head around slightly to face Imogen. 

“So, just you today huh? We normally have at least three newbies at a time, guess crimes goin’ down,” Morello chuckled. “What’s your name hun?” she asked, her lilting accent sounding nice in Imogen’s ears. 

She smiled nervously. “Oh uh, Imogen- uh Imogen Hughes. You’re Morello?”

Morello smiled back, pushing her large sunglasses back up her nose. “That I am, Lorna Morello. It’s nice to meet you Imogen Hughes. We mostly go by last names here though, so you’ll be just Hughes from now on. Unless you earn yourself a nickname, like some of the girls here.”

Imogen only nodded in response, and the van returned to silence. Not too many minutes later they were slowing to a stop in from of a large brick building. 

“Well here we are! The grand Litchfield Penitentiary. Let’s go hun, don’t wanna keep poor Maxwell here waiting any longer than she needs to, huh Maxwell?” Morello grinned at Maxwell and took the keys out of the van, its engine sputtering to a stop.

Maxwell only grunted in response and got out of the van, closing the door behind her. She then slid open the back door and Imogen clambered out awkwardly, struggling to bring the net bag with her. Once out of the van, Morello motioned to follow her, and she quickly followed in step behind. 

“So,” said Morello once they entered the building. “Your orange will be replaced with khaki’s soon enough; it normally takes a couple of days for girls to get theirs with the whole sizing and everything. You’re gonna be going to a temporary dorm room until you get your assigned bunk.”

Imogen nodded, looking at the bare, grey walls surrounding her. She would be lying to herself if she said she wasn’t terrified. Sucking in a deep breath, Imogen tried to soak in everything that Morello was saying, because she would be damned if she wasn’t going to know the most she could about Litchfield so that she could survive the next four years.  
Soon they approached part of the building that had other inmates in it. The women in khaki stared her down, sizing her up for something that Imogen didn’t know or want to know. She just kept her head down and kept walking. 

Morello pointed out the cafeteria, the bathrooms, commissary, the library, the laundry room. And eventually they stopped in front of a cell, that was small with three bunks against the walls

“Here is where you’re gonna be, hun,” she said, gesturing inside. There were two women inside, both looking middle aged or older. “That’s DeMarco,” Morello pointed to the woman sitting crossed legged on her bed, a large box machine sitting beside it. “And that’s Miss Rosa.” Miss Rosa was lying down on her bed, and Imogen couldn’t help but think that she looked sick.

Imogen turned to Morello beside her. “Thank you, for showing me everything, and being so nice to me.”

Morello waved a hand of dismissal. “Oh it’s no worries, really. Here, girls like to steal some of your shit sometimes, so make sure you look after them.” In her outstretched hand was a toothbrush in plastic, a small bottle labelled ‘Soap’ and other assorted toiletries. “You’re gonna be fine in here Hughes. I promise.”

With that, the short woman left, waving her hand once to say goodbye. Imogen turned around to see her two new bunkmates for the time being. “Uh, hi. I’m Hughes. Which on am I sleeping on?”

DeMarco gestured to the top bunk above her. “Up there kiddo. You the only new one? Normally there are more.”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling slightly. “Uh, they mentioned that it was odd for there to be only one person, but it’s just me.” Imogen placed her things on top of the covers of her bed. 

Miss Rosa grunted. “Well you better watch out for yourself. You’re the only one in orange in here, you’ll stick out like a sore thumb. Some girls like to mess with the newbies and now there’s only one of you ‘till next week? Be careful.” She shifted in bed, rolling onto her other side so that she faced the wall. 

Imogen’s eyes widened, and she felt her fear of being here double in size. DeMarco seemed to notice this, and smiled at her.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine, kid. There’s normally not a lot that goes on around here. As long as you keep your head down, make a few friends, you should be okay.”

“Thank you,” said Imogen, again smiling a little. “Uh, I’ve been assigned in the kitchen for work? Do you know when I would start that?”

“Oh ho, the kitchen.” DeMarco moved in her bed so that she was sitting against the wall it backed onto. “You’ll be working under Red. She can be intense, maybe a little bit scary, but as long as you get your work done and don’t insult her cooking, she’ll be alright to ya. She takes care of her girls.”

Imogen nodded and sighed. It seemed that everything in this place could be a little bit alright if you just follow the rules and don’t make waves. So that’s what Imogen decided she’d do. 

-

Everything felt like it was going okay for the next two days. It still was disconcerting to have to pee while occasionally making eye contact, but overall nothing was that bad. Imogen would start her work as soon as she got her khaki’s, and apparently that was tomorrow. So far no one had tried to ‘mess with’ her like Miss Rosa had warned her about. She was glad that she would be out of the orange soon though, because everywhere she went, she got stares. People had noticed she was the only one, and of course, that made her more of a possible target than otherwise. But it seemed DeMarco was right, not that much seemed to go on. Girls over all got along with each other, apart from the occasional fights. 

Imogen sat with Morello at meals. She was introduced to some of Morello’s friends, Nicky, Jones and a girl named Chapman who had only been there three weeks. They all seemed nice. She hadn’t met the infamous Red yet, however. When she told Chapman she was going to work in the kitchens with her, she made an odd expression. 

“What?” Imogen asked. “What is it?”

Chapman blinked, her expression changing back. “Oh, nothing. It’s just that I didn’t really get off on a great foot with Red. She hasn’t really liked me since.”

Nicky snorted. “’Didn’t get off on a great foot’? Chapman, you got off on the wrong limb,” she said, grinning and amused. She turned to Imogen. “This doofus told Red, to her face, that the food here is horrible. Red gave her a bloody tampon in her sandwich and starved her until she made it up with some weird back cream.”

“Hey, to be fair,” said Chapman, her mouth open in protest. “I didn’t know she was the head of the kitchens until after I told her. And I really do regret saying that, I chewed three hot peppers just to be able to eat food again.”

Imogen’s brows furrowed in confusion, but Nicky shook her head as to say you don’t want to know. So, she smiled instead, amused at Chapman’s misfortune. She was glad that she was friendly with Morello, and that her friends were nice to her as well. Soon, she would be out of the orange, and she knew she would be able to blend in more and survive the next four years with less anxiety.

It was Thursday night, two days after she had arrived. It was kind of late, in Litchfield terms. The count was in an hour, and Imogen was just getting ready so that she could relax in her bunk before lights out. She was brushing her teeth in the empty bathrooms when she heard a couple of women enter. 

As soon as she made eye contact with them, she knew it wasn’t going to be good. There were two of them, one tall and lanky with frizzy hair and one muscly and squat with a large tattoo that snaked around her neck and down her entire left arm. 

“So,” the tall one said. “You’re the newbie.”

Imogen took the toothbrush out of her mouth quickly and spat into the sink, then wiped her mouth hurriedly. “Yeah, that’s- uh, that’s me.”

The short one stepped forward. “Y’know, when your new, you get a bunch of freebies. Soap and the like. And my friend and I, well, we’re running a little low on commissary. We would really appreciate it if you lent us yours.”

Looking from woman to woman, Imogen knew that these girls weren’t just here for free toiletries. Something told her they just wanted someone to pick on. “Oh, I uh- I mean—”

The tall one turned to the short one. “That sounds like defiance to me, Anderson. We don’t tolerate defiance here in Litchfield.”

“No,” the one apparently called Anderson said. “No, we do not.”

Suddenly, Imogen was thrown to the floor. She cried out in pain, and soon a fist was coming to her stomach. Trying desperately to not get hurt, she curled into a ball as she was kicked on her torso. Imogen realized how strategic these blows were. Nowhere that could be seen in the uniform, that was for sure. Eventually, after what felt like eternity, it stopped. 

The two women left her on the ground, and grabbed her soap, toothpaste and something else Imogen couldn’t see. She was just glad they were gone; it was over. And most of all, she was glad that tomorrow, she could get out of these clothes that may as well have been neon and glow in the dark. Shakily she got up, wincing at the pain in places she knew she would have bruises tomorrow. Imogen grabbed her things, and quickly went back to her cell. And as soon as she got there, she lay down on her bed and cried.

-

The next day, Imogen went into the kitchen in her newly khaki uniform. Her entire body ached all over, and she was pretty sure one of her ribs was slightly cracked. She had been through something worse though, so she knew she was able to make it out relatively okay. Of course, that time she wasn’t in a women’s correctional facility. 

Immediately, she knew which woman was Red. The woman looked past her fifties, was not overly tall, and had blood red dyed hair. She had glasses hanging around her neck on a string, and her chef’s uniform had on it just above the breast pocket the name ‘Red’ hand stitched. Imogen was too busy looking at this woman (understanding what everyone meant when they said you shouldn’t cross her) that she didn’t hear her speaking.

“Hello? Earth to inmate?” Red’s Russian accent rolled her ‘r’s and sharpened her vowels. 

Imogen shook herself. “Yes, sorry. I’m Hughes, I’m new, I’ve been assigned to work here?” It came out as a question rather than a statement.

“Yes,” said Red. “I figured. Well, go put an apron on and help Gina with the bread.” She then bustled away in search of someone or something.

Well, that seemed to not go as bad as Imogen had expected. It all looked as though it went alright, she was a little clumsy from lack of cooking experience but felt like she was going to be okay there.  
That was until everyone started to pack up. Trays were being walked everywhere, put away and taken out, and soon enough the mute woman, Imogen was pretty sure her name was Norma, bumped into her causing a tray to go ramming into her stomach. Last night all came rushing back, and she doubled over hissing in pain and hugging her middle. A few heads turned to look at the disturbance, and Imogen tried to quickly recover. She didn’t want anyone to question anything. 

“Sorry,” she said looking around her. “I’m okay,” she added once she saw the apologetic look on Norma’s face. “Really.” 

And everyone seemed to go back to whatever it was that they were doing. But when she looked over at where Red was standing, the woman was staring at her with her brows furrowed, and Imogen couldn’t figure out if that was from concern or confusion. Most likely the latter, she thought to herself.


	2. Chapter 2

It didn’t take long that day before Imogen wanted to call her sister. She was one of three siblings, the oldest. Her younger siblings were Oscar and Molly, and so far, Imogen had called them every day she was there. Oscar was fifteen and Molly was seventeen, which meant that most of the time they were together in the house and she got to talk to everyone, including mom and dad

As soon as the kitchen workers were dismissed after dinner, Imogen all but ran to the phones. She quickly pressed in the digits of her sisters’ phone number and heard the familiar buzz of the ring tone. It went for longer than usual, she noticed. But Imogen prayed that Molly was going to pick up. 

“…Immi?”

Imogen bit her lip in excitement. “Molls! Oh my god I was worried you weren’t going to pick up, there’s a line growing behind me and it’s kind of getting late, in here’s terms anyway. How are you?”

“I’m- I’m good Immi. Everyone else is out at the moment, so it’s just me,” her sister said. There was something about her tone, a kind of hesitance, that made Imogen feel uneasy. 

“That’s okay Molls. It’s good to see you. Every hour feels like a day in here, I can’t believe I’ve only been here three days.” Imogen pressed her mouth into a line, trying so hard to have a good conversation with her sister, no matter how bad she wanted to know what it was that was going on. “God, Molls, visitation seems so far away, I want to see you all.”

“…Oh. Uh, about that. Immi, the thing is…  
”   
Bingo. She had found it.

Imogen felt her heart still. She swallowed down the thick dread that coated her tongue. “What? What is it Molly? Please don’t tell me you aren’t coming I don’t know if—"

“We’re moving out of the state.” 

The words were thrown into Imogen’s face, leaving her spluttering and confused.

“What?”

Her sister tried again. “We, uh, we’re moving out of the state. Far out. Mom thinks we need somewhere new, and um- and someplace without service to connect as a family. So, we won’t be able to visit you or,” she cleared her throat and swallowed. “Or even call. We were supposed to tell you tonight, but then you called me, and I couldn’t let you think…” Molly trailed off into silence. 

“Think what? That my family still cared about me?” A little wobble in Imogen’s voice betrayed her. “Think that they were going to be there for me, after everything that I’ve been through- everything that I have to go through for the next four years?!”

“Look, Immi, I think that we all need some space. I don’t need to tell you that reporters have been at our door pretty much every day, you know that. Listen, I don’t want to go, really, it’s just that—”

“No, of course you don’t. You just have to, isn’t that right?” Imogen felt the sarcastic bite to her tone and could tell it hurt Molly. 

“…Uh, I should go. Mum’s about to get home and I was supposed to be packing my stuff.”

She shouldn’t have been mean, Imogen didn’t want Molly to hang up yet, she wanted to talk to her. “Wait! Please. I’m sorry, that was mean. Don’t hang up. Please. I want to hear your voice for longer.” The wobble in her voice formed into a large, broken crack.

“I wish I could, Immi. I really do, but I wasn’t making it up, I’m definitely going to be yelled at by mom if I don’t hurry up. I’m so, so sorry about this,” she said, and Imogen could hear her sniff back a tear.

“Wait! Wait please! Just- one more thing.”

Molly cleared her throat again. “Yeah, o-okay sure.”

Squeezing her eyes tight to keep the tears in her eyes, Imogen bit her lip. “Uh, it’s- Oscar. Please tell him I miss him, and I love his dumb face. And that I’ll send prison friends to beat him up if he isn’t nice to you. An-and you too. I love you, stupid.” 

Imogen could hear Molly chuckle wetly on the other end of the phone. “Of course. Yeah, I can tell him. Love you too, stupid.”

“Molly I—” 

But the beep of the ‘end call’ button cut her off, and Imogen barked out a sob. She looked up at the growing line and disgruntled faces, and quickly hung the phone. Begging her eyes to stop burning, she walked down the hallway towards her dorm, and lay down on her bed, her arms curled in on herself, and her knees tucked under her chin. She quickly fell asleep. 

What seemed like only a few minutes later, she was woken up by DeMarco whispering her name. “Hughes. Hey, Hughes.”

Imogen groaned, and opened her eyes. She smiled weakly when she saw who it was. “Hey DeMarco.”

“Just thought I’d tell you, tonight’s movie night in the rec room. Everyone’s gonna be there, and I think they’re showing a good one.” DeMarco stood back up and walked over to her own bed, grabbing a pair of headphones and her radio. 

“Thanks, DeMarco,” said Imogen, “But I don’t have headphones yet, so I think I’m going to just stay in here tonight.”

DeMarco shrugged. “Alright. Suit yourself kid. See you later.” And she left, leaving Imogen to stay in bed, feeling the loneliest she had ever felt.

Her thoughts kept swirling and moving in circles until they were tangled up and she couldn’t even form sentences in her own head. Imogen’s heartbeat was erratic and fast, and she finally let herself cry. It definitely was not the first time she had cried since she got to prison, the dull throbbing in her ribs made sure she didn’t forget, but it felt the most real, and painful. Before now, at least she had her family to lean on. She could’ve looked forward to conjugal visits, hugging her brother and sister. But now, her mother had taken that away from her.   
Once it all happened, and there were court dates and lawyers and reporters, the press and journalists and legalities. But of course, Penelope Hughes wanted to keep it all as under wraps and under her control as she could. She forced Imogen to continue going to college, act as if nothing had changed, except it had, and people stared and antagonized her everywhere she went. Names were thrown across the room at her, derogatory and humiliating. The people who she thought were her friends left her, and she closed in on herself. 

Imogen’s mother was having none of it, however. It was necessary to keep up appearances. Show that her daughter was not being phased by it, and neither was the rest of the family. It was a minor hiccup in the Hughes’ otherwise flawless record. 

Although she knew all of this, the reality that her mother was taking the rest of Imogen’s family away from her was a harsh and painful shock. She thought back to the days after the fact, after it, and how she felt, what she did. Imogen made a promise to herself she wouldn’t do that again, that she was past it. But lying in her prison bunk, her ribs and her heart aching, Imogen let herself imagine that little bit better she would feel if she started again. She knew it was bad, she really did, but at that moment, Imogen honestly didn’t care. 

If she thought hard enough, she could remember where Red stored the keys to the knife cabinet. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do. Imogen felt as though she was in some kind of trance. A fraction of her brain was yelling at her to stop this madness before something bad happened. But the rest of her kept thinking about those keys, and that knife cabinet. 

Stumbling out of bed, Imogen walked down the hall to the kitchen. She slid into the pantry and saw the hook where the keys were hung. Careful not to make a noise, she picked them up, and walked herself to the knife cabinet. The key went into the lock and Imogen twisted it, wincing at the click it made when it opened. After a few moments of waiting in silence to see if anyone was coming, she opened the door to the cabinet. The smallest one, she thought. It would be easiest to hide, and the least obvious missing. Imogen slid it into her sleeve and pressed her hands by her sides. She closed the door to the cabinet, and quickly slipped out, and headed towards the bathroom. No one would be around; everyone would be watching the movie. She found the one stall that had a door and locked it.

With shaky hands, Imogen rolled up her sleeve and took out the blade. She looked at her forearm, at the few white scars that shimmered under the fluorescent bulb. The knife shook in her hands, and for a split second, she thought, what am I doing? What was the point of doing this? She was supposed to be over it. But as soon as the thought appeared, it was pushed aside, and Imogen pressed the blade to her arm. A bead of blood built up on the metal and dripped on her skin. Before she second guessed herself again, Imogen slid the blade across her skin, and hissed at the sharp pain. It felt familiar, and she felt nausea build up in the back of her throat at the thought of nostalgia. She swallowed quickly, and moved the knife up her arm a bit, ready to repeat. Imogen did it again and took a sharp breath in through her teeth. 

Screwing her eyes shut, she did it again and again, all with her eyes glued closed. Slowly, she opened them and looked down at the mess she had created. Her forearm was covered in blood, and it had stained the cuff of her shirt which had been haphazardly pushed up to her elbow. Imogen’s hands shook too hard, and the knife dropped onto the tiled bathroom floor with a loud clattering sound. She picked it up quickly, and with fumbling fingers unlocked the bathroom stall. If anyone where in the bathroom, Imogen would not have noticed. All she saw was the sink and the tap, and the water that she had to use to get rid of this blood. She dropped the knife in the sink, and turned on the tap. 

In any other situation, Imogen might have amused herself at the Lady Macbeth parallels she was creating. But instead of being someone else’s blood on her hands, it was her own. Out damned spot, indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

Before Imogen managed to get rid of the ‘evidence’ so to speak, footsteps echoed on the tile. Nicky’s wild hair appeared around the corner. It seemed that she first saw the distress on Imogen’s face before she saw the blood, as she said;

“Hey Hughes, you okay? What’s—”

Imogen desperately tried to hide her arm behind her back, but it seemed she was too late.

“Woah, hey, Hughes. What happened?” Nicky said, taking a few slow steps towards Imogen. When the girl didn’t move, she said. “C’mon, I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. Listen, I want to help. I saw blood, who did it?”

“I—” Imogen swallowed. “I’m fine I promise, just go back to the movie, I don’t want you to miss it because of me.”

Nicky shook her head. “Look, I’m not going back ‘till you tell me what’s going on. You’ve got me a bit worried, not gonna lie. I know some people can be mean to new girls, show me what happened.”

Imogen realised that Nicky wasn’t going anywhere until she had an explanation, so instead of making it all take longer, she bit her lip, and slowly moved her arm from behind her. “It’s not exactly what you think i—”

It seemed Nicky put the pieces together. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry. Hey, come here, let’s fix you up.”

The kindness of Nicky’s words, and the horrible day that Imogen had just had, led her to breakdown. A sob wrenched its way out of her throat, and she fell to her knees. “I’m so sorry, I did-didn’t mean to I- I just didn’t know what to do, and I feel so alone. I s-swear this isn’t something I do I just couldn’t- and I was going to put the knife back as soon as possible I swear, I just—”

Nicky crouched down to her knees as well and she moved over beside Imogen. “Hey, hey, hey you’re okay, everything’s going to be alright. Can I see the cuts?”

Imogen extended her arm so that Nicky could take a closer look. The gashes showed no sign of slowing bleeding. 

“Listen,” she said to Imogen, making her voice soft. “I would take you to the infirmary, cause these don’t look good, but I know if they see you did this to yourself they’d take you to Psych, or Max, and trust me you don’t want to go either of those places, mkay?”

Imogen just nodded, using her other arm to wipe tears off of her face. 

“Okay,” said Nicky. “Then, I’m gonna need to get Red. She’s gonna know what to do and she’ll be able to help you.”

Her head looked up at Nicky quickly, and Imogen’s brow furrowed. “N-no, I stole the knife from her kitchen, I don’t want her to hate me or punish me. I swear I was going to put it back; I don’t know what I was thinking doing this, god I’m so sorry—”

“Woah, woah,” Nicky interrupted, “It’s okay. I promise Red won’t be mad, okay? She’ll help you, I promise. Now, you stay here while I run and get her, alright?”

Hesitantly, Imogen nodded.

Nicky smiled at her, and then stood, walking as fast as she could without running to go and get Red. Imogen sat there, her bleeding arm clutched in her other hand, and her whole body shaking slightly. She had only been in prison for a few days, and already she had caused so much trouble. And then she found her minds eye looking only at Molly, and Oscar, and how much distance there’s going to be between them. She bit down on her lip and screwed up her eyes, and she tried to focus on just the throbbing pain coming from her arm, none of her thoughts. That’s why she did it, so it should at least work. But soon she found herself tasting blood, and now not only was stinging coming from her forearm, but also her bottom lip. 

Imogen could taste, smell and feel blood. There was too much of it everywhere, and she just wanted it gone. All those poems about people who self-harm, reveling in the ‘beauty of blood’ were fucking lying. Blood is disgusting. It is sticky and uncomfortable. It smells like rusty metal and tastes even worse. Imogen would do anything to get rid of the blood. 

So, she stood up on unstable legs, and leant over the sink. Again, she turned on the faucet, and shoved her arm underneath the water flow. It made the cuts sting ten times worse than they did before, but it was worth it. She had to get it off. The water became red, then pink, and for a split second it was clear, but before Imogen could breathe a sigh of relief, the cuts started bleeding again, and the water was stained red. It just didn’t stop. 

It seemed like hours before Imogen heard a pair of footsteps. Should Imogen look back on this moment, she would have realised how dangerous it was that she didn’t even think of hiding, but just kept scrubbing at her wrist. 

Nicky and Red rounded the corner of the bathroom, and Imogen looked up at them. Red, even without her chef attire on, still looked terrifying and stern. When her eyes found the girl at the bloody sink, her face was a frozen mixture of annoyance and worry. 

“Hey, hey, hey, Hughes,” said Nicky, rushing over to stop the almost violent way Imogen was scrubbing at her wrist. “Hey, it’s okay, stop that. Listen, I’m back, Red’s here. We’ve got a first-aid kit from the kitchen, and we’re gonna fix you up, sound good?”

Imogen was silent. She looked at the expression of shock and slight horror that was on Red’s face and her scrubbing slowed to a stop. Tears welled up in her eyes for what felt like the millionth time that evening, and yet again she slid onto the floor, sobbing. This seemed to snap Red out of her stupor, and she walked over to the other two, and with a small grunt crouched down next to Imogen. 

“Hey,” she said, sharp enough that Imogen looked up at her immediately, but with a tenderness betraying that she cared. “Hughes, correct?”

Imogen nodded. 

“Honey, we’re going to help you, but we need you to work with us. It’s going to hurt a lot to stitch you up, but we don’t have a choice, unless you want to bleed out. Understood?” Red moved her head forward a bit, to make sure that they were making eye contact. 

“Yeah,” said Imogen, hating the way her voice sounded, how weak and pained it was. “I- uh, I understand.”

Without waiting for any other kind of response, Red stood back up and pulled out of her hoodie pocket a small first aid kid. She opened it and took out the pack of needles and medical thread and started to thread it. 

Watching silently, Imogen thought back to the knife that was currently sitting in the blood-stained sink, and how mad Red probably was, she could get in so much trouble for having that knife out of its box. Red oversaw the kitchen and having an actual knife loose in a women’s prison could lead to disastrous effects. 

Imogen’s eyes flicked down to her arm and then back to Red. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, words feeling difficult to get her tongue around. “The knife, uh, I- I didn’t think it through, and- and you could get in so much trouble for it- I just wasn’t- I don’t- It was dumb, I—”

“Hughes,” Red interrupted. “Don’t. We just need to focus on cleaning this up, okay? Now, I’m going to stitch your arm up, but it’s going to hurt. Do you need something to bite down on?”

She shook her head. She could deal with a little more pain. 

Nicky slid a bit closer to her and held out her own hand. “Here, squeeze it if you need to.”

Imogen smiled slightly, and with her uninjured arm, grabbed Nicky’s hand. She then stretched out her other arm, and Red positioned the needle. 

“Ready?” she asked, her glasses now perched at the bridge of her nose. 

Not trusting her voice at that moment, Imogen nodded. And only a second later, she felt the sharp jab of a needle piercing her skin, going through it, and she bit down on the insides of her cheek to stop herself from making a noise. She closed her eyes, and squeezed slightly on Nicky’s hand. The needle came up on the other side of one of the cuts, looped over and dove back in again. 

And so, it continued like that, needle-pierce-bite-squeeze, needle-pierce-bite-squeeze, until all the cuts were sewn up. Red tied up the medical thread at the end, and then wiped an alcohol swab all over them. That stung, and Imogen inhaled sharply, not really expecting it. And then they were done. 

Still without speaking, Red packed up all the supplies, closed the first-aid kit with a click and slid it back into the pocket of her jumper. She took her glasses off and let them hang around her neck, like they had before. Nicky was the first to break the silence. 

“You alright, Hughes?”

It took Imogen a few moments to realize she was being spoken to. “...Oh, um yeah. Maybe. I think so.” She reached her arm up to roll down her sleeve, but Red put a hand around her injured wrist to stop her. 

“Listen to me,” she said, rotating Imogen’s arm so that the freshly sewn cuts faced the ceiling. “You see this? You are not to do this again. Ignoring the fact that you stole from me, and could’ve gotten many people in trouble, this is damaging. It becomes a bad habit and could get you killed. Girls kill each other enough in here, we don’t need them doing it to themselves, you understand?”

Imogen gulped, and nodded. She had forgotten about the painfully familiar guilt that followed cutting, but she made sure to sear this into her brain, made sure she never forgot again. Her tears still fell, but slower and less often. “I’m really so sorry. I just reverted back to a way of thinking I’ve spent a year getting rid of, and it- I’m sorry for the danger I put you in. I understand if you want me to find a different work placement, I can see if they’ll let me try to—" 

“No.” Red let go of her arm. “You are going to stay in the kitchen. I’m going to be keeping an eye on you, make sure this doesn’t happen again.” She sighed, and her voice softened slightly. “If you ever want to do this again, feel the urge to do it again, you come to me, alright? You find me and we talk instead. Or if you can’t find me, you talk to Nicky, right?”

Nicky nodded, the corner of her mouth turning upwards. “Of course. We stick together here, okay?”

Again, Imogen nodded. “…Thank you.”

“Now,” said Red, “Nicky and I should get back to the movie before too many people notice we’re gone. Are you coming?”

“Uh, no,” said Imogen as she shook her head slightly. “No, I don’t have my commissary yet, so I don’t have headphones.”

“You can share with me,” Nicky smiled, “We’ll squeeze you in somewhere, eh?”

“That would be nice,” Imogen said, smiling back, and then for what felt like the billionth time, “Thanks.”

A clattering from the sink turned Imogen’s attention to Red, who was taking the knife from it, and sliding it into her pocket, amongst the first-aid kit. “I will replace this,” she said, “You better hope no one’s paying enough attention to notice.” 

Imogen didn’t really know what to say, so she didn’t say anything, just stood slowly and shakily, looking ashamed, Nicky standing soon after. They all left the bathroom, Red separating from them to head towards the kitchen, and the other two to the rec room. They found seats at the back of the room, and could barely see the screen, but one earphone at the back of the room was better than a knife on the floor of the bathroom.


End file.
